King of Assassins: The Elven Ways: Book Three (35 page)

The old Kobrir cackled. “’Bout time, boy, ’bout time. Few Vaelinars recognize its potency. I could not take your word for it, however.” He sat cross-legged, after replacing his knife in a wrist sheath.

“I take it your lethal ways are more subtle.”

“Age has forced me to find death down other paths? Yes.” His statement hissed into silence as he watched Sevryn’s face, still tracking, no doubt, the heat of the kedant in his body.

“You’re the one who drugged me.”

“Might have been. I made the dust.”

“What was it?”

“Another lesson, another time. A common but colorful field weed soaked in a special liquid, dried and ground.”

Sevryn finished his water, the glittering eyes of the old Kobrir fast upon him. He sat down then, but not as the other had. He kept one knee up, for leverage in getting to his feet quickly. From the murmuring of shadows behind him, he sensed that most of the watchers had dispersed. A long dry lecture, no doubt, awaited him.

He tossed Sevryn a bandaging rag for the slice from the ithrel. “One learns to survive. If you survive, you can heal. You may not be whole, but you will be healed, and you have endured.”

“As you have.” Sevryn tied the bandage off with the aid of his teeth and the one available hand. The fabric held the scent of herbs he was familiar with, healing fragrances.

He could not underestimate this seemingly affable elder in front of him, a man with more blades secreted about his body and, no doubt, more venoms and powders. “This is another lesson.”

“It is.” The old Kobrir laughed, a rich deep chuckle with a bubbling at the end of it which he interrupted by coughing harshly. A wise old Kobrir who had, perhaps, been exposed to a few too many of his poisons.

“The way of the blade is not unlike the way of our lives. We are forged: beaten, sharpened, tempered, and then used, only to be beaten and sharpened again and used again until our metal grows brittle and dull. But even an old knife has its uses as a garrote stick perhaps or, at the very least, a weeder in the herb garden.” The old Kobrir chuckled at himself. “Not that I would denigrate the power of herbs. Our best healants and poisons come from the garden, as innocent as those stems, leaves, and buds may look. But then you are well aware of that, as well as that venom for which you’ve built a healthy tolerance.”

“Hallucinogens?”

“Without a doubt.” The Kobrir pursed his thin lips.

“Which one of you drugged the Trader Bregan and why?” More importantly, for whom, but he knew he would not get that secret yet.

“I cannot break the confidence of a contract.”

“That, in itself, tells me he was a target. It seems your brotherhood added intents of its own to it.”

“Perhaps. I could not say.”

Or would not. Sevryn found himself not trusting the elder being in front of him.

“There are many weapons in our arsenal.”

“And I know many of them, and you are likely to teach me others, but what I want to know is this: why am I a student of yours? What do you expect of me?”

“I want you to pick the weapon mostly likely to kill me.”

Without a word, Sevryn struck, his hand flat and taut as a blade, punching into the Kobrir’s neck. The assassin had time only for surprise to widen his pupils before he crumpled onto his side, quite dead. A pouch rolled from the palm of his off-hand as he did. A deadly dust, Sevryn could imagine, ready to blow into his face.

Before he had recoiled, Sevryn said, “I know you are watching. I presume this is what you wanted.”

A dry cough sounded from behind him, as well as the near noiseless sweep of two sets of footfalls leaving behind him. “He was a teacher. Although we prefer giving our teachers time so that they may impart their knowledge, I cannot argue that a teacher is truly finished when the student can best him. You caught him most unaware.”

Sevryn got to his feet and turned to face the last observer. “Again, I would say to you: why?”

The Kobrir facing him put a slender hand up to drop the veil from his face and to unwrap the black cloth about his head. When he finished, he looked at Sevryn with a slight tilt to his expression. “As you can see, we are not from here, even as you Vaelinar are not.”

He stared at a face the likes of which he had never seen before. Wide, flat nose, high cheekbones so sharp they could cut the air, a mouth which revealed more teeth than it should as the assassin smiled at him, a squared jaw to accommodate those teeth . . . yes, teeth of a carnivore, no doubt of it. He wondered that, in all the close encounters he’d had with Kobrir, none of them had ever bitten him. It would have been formidable. It might have revealed that which was being revealed to him now. Sevryn studied the curve of his opponent’s neck, long and elegant and, unless Sevryn were very wrong about what he saw, too many vertebrae. The Kobrir would have a far easier time of it turning his head to scan his flanks or even partially behind him. A handy condition for a fighter.

Sevryn took a step back. The Kobrir had never left their dead behind. Never. In any attack, there were always those whose single purpose was to retrieve the bodies, and they had done so with extreme success. Sevryn had never had more than a moment or two to look at them before being drawn away.

“You reveal yourself now. Am I allowed to ask where you belong, if not here?”

“We believe we are come from what you Vaelinar refer to as the lost Trevilara. We cannot be certain. Our lives and our histories are not as long or as well documented as yours. For a long time, we hoped we could ask you—that is, one of you—where our ancestors were birthed. It doesn’t matter in many ways because we are almost certain we would not be welcomed back. We were sent here to be killers. We have succeeded, and yet failed. Vaelinars still live.”

“You were to kill all of us.”

The lips peeled back from those too many teeth again. “I think we were meant to. Certainly, at key moments in your history here, to impede growth. But as good as we are at killing, you and yours are better at surviving.”

“Why stop at me?”

“Because, Sevryn, we have a small knot of magic amongst ourselves, courtesy of our birthright from Trevilara, and that fistful of power has told us to do what we’ve never done before: break a contract. Break a contract, spare the intended target, and reveal ourselves and pray that our feeble oracular vision is correct, and we have done as we should.”

“Sparing me. Sparing Rivergrace.”

The Kobrir inclined his head. Smoothly. Gracefully. Eloquently. What blood did he have in him besides human? Feline? Reptile? Sevryn tried to place it and couldn’t. “We see a world coming in which we could have a place, or we could be driven out forever. We dwindle. We would like to embrace that which has been denied to us.”

“You sent me on a search.”

“One that was suggested to us by that kernel of foresight. A path which we had never hoped could exist, but which possibility has now been suggested to us.”

Sevryn shook his head slowly. “I’m not your savior.”

“Of course not. You’re but a . . . how best to describe it . . . a finger in what we hope will become a fist.”

“And it starts with finding the king of assassins.”

Another graceful nod. “So it was given to us.”

“Then lead me to him.”

The Kobrir shook his head slowly side to side. “I cannot.”

Sevryn could feel anger start a slow burn in him. “I cannot be delayed.”

The Kobrir wrapped his head again, quickly, deftly, and replaced his veil. “Another lesson.”

“And I complete it by killing you?”

“If that is how you must show your mastery.”

Sevryn balanced himself. “One last question before the lesson.”

“All right.”

“Do you work for the ild Fallyn now?”

The Kobrir canted his gaze again. “I thought you understood, Sevryn Dardanon. For the first time in our history upon Kerith, we work for ourselves.” Silver flashed in his hands and Sevryn found himself under attack.

He fought as his opponent did, with sword in one hand and dagger in the off-hand, the dagger being both shield and weapon. They clashed high and low, forcing each other back a step and forward a step, their movements so quick his eyes could not follow what his instincts told him to do, but he met every blow just as every move of his was answered. He sensed only the dull thuds when his blades parried successfully and did not feel a sharp scoring when he did not, for he kept up. How, he could not have told, because he did not think. He reacted. Years of training gave his muscles and reflexes a mind, a pattern, of their own.

The Kobrir stopped by flexing both blades in his hands outward, palms forward, and taking two rapid steps back, out of Sevryn’s reach, as the fact a halt had been called reached his mind. He relaxed his blade and took a step back himself, not trusting himself to be totally out of reach of his opponent. He had not been breathing deeply. He took one now as he balanced himself.

Only then did he realize he’d been struck. The inside of his left wrist sleeve hung open, smeared with blood, though nothing dripped. His opponent, however, seemed to be untouched.

“How was it you found the skill to oppose me?”

“Training.”

The Kobrir nodded. “Successful training. You did not have to think. That would have slowed you down enough for me to inflict far more damage. But it is necessary to think when you face another. To determine how to react. To determine when to fall back. When to press. What do you watch?”

Sevryn considered the question seriously. He could not tell what he watched in an opponent. Often, the eyes or hands, tell-givers of another’s body. But not always. Not in this instance. He shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you.”

“Then let me tell you. I watch the shoulders. It is the center of our balance. To shift our weight, to attack, retreat, strike, parry, we must move our shoulders. Our feet follow. Our hands, elbows, our gaze follows. Even those you call Ravers and those we all call the Raymy, carry the balance of their structure in the shoulders. The Ravers are insectoid, so that occasionally changes, but they seem to prefer to fight upright, and if they do, that’s where they carry their balance. The only change I make for an opponent is if I fight a woman. Women carry their balance in their pelvis. It is the center of their gravity, even a female who is prepubescent. Knowing that, I can make the adjustment. They are often trained by men, so they try to imitate the shoulder carry. A rare woman fighter does not. And if she is left-handed, she can be extremely dangerous for even the best trained man to face.”

“She would have an advantage.”

“Yes. But only if she knew it.” The Kobrir’s lips tightened in a half-smile. “Your opponent often thinks they have the advantage: height, speed, arm length, weapon. Those are advantages that are transient. As soon as you have noted what they have, that advantage is gone. You know how to counter it, fend it off, get under or around it. The assassin you do not want to face is one that has partnered with the animal. I have only met one or two in my readings who did so, but they were invincible. A four- or six-legged partner with speed or bulk or cunning gives a near unalterable benefit.”

“What about the Bolger?”

“Strong, but slow. They can only offset their slowness by fighting at pole length or by throwing. I knew a Bolger with a net once who was extremely hard to bring down.” The Kobrir took two long and slow breaths. “I am going to come at you again, half-speed. I want you to counter what my shoulders tell you I’m going to do. Move at any pace you find natural, I will meet it if necessary.”

Sevryn had time enough to breathe deep before the Kobrir lunged at him. He saw his shoulder dip to the left ever so slightly, signaling a move to the left side, his right. An attack then, over or under his offensive hand. That was the last moment he had to think coherently. He noted the slowing of speed and found himself knowing the other’s move just before he made it, although he couldn’t say if he had spotted it through the balance shift of the other’s shoulders or his own deeply ingrained training. He felt an easiness and began to press the other, quickening his attacks. The Kobrir answered in kind. Sparks flew now and then as the blades rang off each other. He could feel the burn in the muscles down the back of his neck and shoulder, and where he’d been hit earlier began a dull aching throb. Yet Sevryn did not slow. He felt a kind of fierce joy in the spar. The Kobrir finally halted it by leaping back before bringing his hands up.

It was only then, as sweat trickled down his rib cage, that he felt the sting of having been scored by the other’s blade. Sevryn winced as he put a finger to it. Only the tiniest of surface slashes, not deep but long.

“You’ve done well. Tomorrow we practice again.”

“The day’s not over.”

The Kobrir inclined his head. “And you are in a hurry.”

“With a purpose, yes.” Worthy lessons, but they were keeping him from Rivergrace.

“The rest of the day, you will practice breathing. Your muscles are tired, your legs are nearly dead, and all because you cannot breathe deeply enough while you fight. Another will be along to teach you those lessons.” The Kobrir saluted him with both blades, stepped back, and disappeared into the shadows ringing the cave.

It did not help that his lungs ached, reinforcing the truth. Sevryn retreated to his bedroll, sat and began to sharpen, and then oil his blades. They had taken nicks, and he worked long to remove the imperfections. When he looked up, another Kobrir had come in and silently sat down in front of him, watching. As soon as awareness hit Sevryn, the Kobrir’s hand shot out, throwing him down and he suddenly lost all ability to breathe. Dark spots began to dance before his eyes in another moment as his heels drummed the dirt and he fought to break free.

“Do not fight,” the Kobrir whispered. “I will release you. Breathe deeply. Then I will take hold of you again. When you can resist my hold without falling unconscious, the lesson is finished.”

It seemed to last hours. Gulp air down and be assailed, and try not to run out of breath before being released. Again. And again. Until finally Sevryn likened it to swimming underwater and found a relaxation in lying in the other’s inexorable hold, his lungs slowly realizing that no more air was forthcoming, and his mind beginning to shout at him that he had to breathe. Those moments came farther and farther apart until . . .